Fat Milo’s apocalyptic moonbeam was almost complete. There was some fine-tuning left to finish, sure. Some bolts to tighten, some knobs to loosen, a nozzle or two to adjust. But the thing that worried him most– and the thing that had motivated him to take to the moonbeam’s construction with a half-dedicated procrastination– was the Inverted Particle Capacitator Flux. It was the part of the moonbeam that made the moonbeam a moonbeam. It was a palm-sized piece of glass that was responsible for conjuring up the antimatter. This made it extremely dangerous, particularly in the hands of someone like Fat Milo, whose attention was so easily diverted at the exact wrong moments because he preferred to think about things as opposed to, you know, doing them. And if the Inverted Particle Capacitator Flux was stimulated to life at just the wrong moment, all that would happen is that a small nuclear explosion would take place, instantaneously vaporizing Fat Milo and any piece of matter within a 16 mile radius.
Well…perhaps “vaporize” is not the proper term, here. The matter wouldn’t so much as vaporize as just simply cease to exist. Once the antimatter collided with the matter, it would all just transform instantaneously into the utter and profound Nothingness that all of Somethingness springs from.
Anyhow, now was the time. The rest of the laser gun was complete. All that was left was to place the Inverted Particle Capacitator Flux in it’s proper assemblage, aim the barrel toward the giant-ass target that was the moon, turn on the moonbeam and simply sit back and witness the end of the world.
But to what purpose? What was the point of this selfish self-destruction? To what ends was Fat Milo directing his actions?
Well, essentially, he was tired of going to work every day.
Fat Milo had seen a show on the Science Channel one evening, discussing how the Earth would be affected if someone had decided to blow up the moon. It would be bedlam. Molten hot moonpieces would fall to the earth, destroying cities and leading to a mass destruction of life. Plus, he figured, the sheer monumental eventfulness of the moon being decimated would certainly warrant a day or two off from work.
This might seem like an obscenely excessive and brazen escalation of effort on Fat Milo’s part. However, you need to remember that this was the guy who, as a high school kid, was so desperate to get out of wrestling practice that he once spent two weeks tunneling through the subterranean landscape of Rio Frio High School in order to sneak into the wrestling room early one winter morning, before classes started (before the buses had even left the garage) and carve up all the wrestling mats with an ex-acto knife, thereby rendering them wholly useless as apparati.
We can ignore the fact that the wrestling coach simply adjusted by having the wrestling team wrestle outside, in the cold, on top of a frozen football field, which Fat Milo found even more distasteful. The point is that instead of simply quitting the team and moving on with life, Fat Milo thought it reasonable to enact a–essentially–overly-convoluted villainous action movie B-plot so that he could go home and eat cereal and watch reruns on Nickelodeon after school.
And now, instead of simply quitting his job and finding something that was more agreeable with his skills, motivation and temperament, he was going to mount a cataclysmic scheme that would impact every resident of the planet Earth (much like–it should be noted–that his plan to avoid wrestling practice would’ve and should’ve affected every member of the team who actually wanted to be at practice, as well as all the prospective opponents of the wrestling team, who would be competing against a compromised shell of a wrestling team who had to practice in the outdoors, on frozen grass).
This was Fat Milo’s M.O. His aunt, El Chupacabra the Apathetic, used to tell Fat Milo, “I think you’re overthinking things,” such as when Fat Milo posed the theory that the entire history of Zen Buddhism had been a lie, and that the entire purpose had been to send an endless procession of schmucks, such as himself, into a state of nihilistic confusion.
“Either meditate or don’t meditate,” El Chupacabra had stated. “But get out of your own head a bit. The point of Zen is simply to act and not think so much about stupid shit. Save your masturbation tactics for the shower.”
When the moonbeam was complete, Fat Milo took a deep breath. It was a cool summer night somewhere in the backwoods of Crestone, Colorado. These were the same woods where some yokels named El Crow, Pedolo and Lone Wolf had sworn under oath that they had stumbled upon a satanic cult in the midst of a terrible blood-ritual while they were searching for the ever-elusive chupacabra–the beast, not the sham philosopher. The trio had described at first seeing a large bonfire in the distance, as the woods and hills gave way to flat desert land in the Valley. And then, drunk off their own curiosity, they followed the flames to a repugnant ceremony of animal slaughter and spirit-conjuring by a rather disturbingly large group of people draped in capes and sporting what seemed to be spooky Chinese opera masks.
Fat Milo frowned upon such people as El Crow, Pedolo and Lone Wolf. He felt them stupid. They didn’t think about things enough. Always acting on scant information and gut feelings. Always accepting their mistaken and illusory perceptions of things. Always reacting to their emotions and feeble desires. “Not me,” he said to himself. “I am above that.” He did, after all, read profound, meaningful, world-saving books by such luminaries as Eckhart Tolle, Deepak Chopra and Artemis Magnussen.
And when he finished jerking his psyche off to such pornographic ideas of himself, he flipped the switch that would forever alter the nature of an entire planet all so he could garner a couple of days off of work without dipping into his sick leave.
…But it didn’t work.
He flipped the switch again.
He flipped it several times quickly, the clicking of the switch sounding something like the flapping of a dragonfly’s wings.
He kicked the moonbeam over with a front snap kick. The weapon hit the ground and separated into several dozen useless pieces. The Inverted Particle Capacitator Flux didn’t even create a small quasi-anti-thermonuclear explosion when it collided with the ground, as his calculations suggested it probably would. It simply broke in half and sizzled a small stream of smoke which smelled like concentrated ozone and burnt popcorn.
“ARGHHH,” he growled. “What the fuck?!”
He began his dejected hike back down from the woods into civilization when, upon passing by a lone tree near the bottom of the hills, he felt a warm drop of something fall upon his forehead.
He pulled out his cell-phone to use a flashlight app to shine a light upon the tips of his fingers, which he had used to wipe whatever it was that had fallen upon his brow.
The liquid was dark purple, almost black. And behind him, somebody stated, suddenly:
“We have no idea who you are, but we’ve been waiting for you.”
She was wearing a spooky purple Chinese opera mask, except, for all his self-perceived swells of knowledge, Fat Milo did not know what kind of mask it was, simply that it was spooky.
And off in the distance, down in the Valley, he could see a rather large bonfire which shone like a small city in the wilderness.